


And There, for Me, the Apple Tree

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [19]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Songfic, The Husbands Go On a Picnic, choral songfic, i'm SOFT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Let other folk make money fasterIn the air of dark-roomed towns,I don't dread a peevish master;Though no man may heed my frowns,I be free to go abroad,Or take again my homeward roadTo where, for me, the apple treeDo lean down low in Linden Lea.Crowley takes Aziraphale on a picnic!





	And There, for Me, the Apple Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is the conclusion of one-chapter, serious songfics for this series. I've got two songs coming up that are more of a silly lean, and then one song to finish this series out-- but that one is gonna be multi-chapter. 
> 
> I wanted to finish this section with a choral selection, because when it comes right down to it I'm a choral nerd. So have a fic set to the beautiful sounds of Ralph Vaughan Williams's setting of William Barnes's Linden Lea! 
> 
> Feel free to listen here: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nvoYHwYDYLA)
> 
> (it's really extremely lovely)

If one were to ask Crowley who had suggested a picnic in an orchard, he certainly would not have revealed that it was him. 

After all, Aziraphale had once sat in the passenger seat of the Bentley and suggested it himself. It had been coupled with dining at the Ritz— they’d dined at the Ritz too many times to count, now. It was time for a picnic. 

He’d actually wanted to go to a forest nearby— but it so happened that the forest belonged to an order of Franciscan monks. That explained the beauty of it, but also explained the weird twinge in his left hip when he’d driven by. 

(He liked the Franciscans, as much as a demon can like an oder of monks that weren’t Satanic. They took very good care of plants.)

Aziraphale had smiled kindly when Crowley apologized for needing to change plans. “You’ve stood on consecrated ground for me once, my sweet,” he’d murmured, “you needn’t do it again.” 

Crowley would not admit to blushing at that. Not at all.

But now, as Crowley pulled his vintage Thunderbird into the driveway of an orchard, he would admit to holding Aziraphale’s hand. The angel’s hair was puffed up from the wind of driving— he hadn’t been going fast enough to cause Aziraphale’s eyes to water behind the windshield of the convertible, but his curls were very mussed. 

Aziraphale was also grinning brightly at Crowley. He squeezed the demon’s hand over the gearshift, saying, “I’m glad we tucked the ends of that blanket under the basket— I was half-convinced we were going to lose it!” 

“Nah.”

Aziraphale laughed, running his hand through his hair to try and smooth it down. Crowley parked the old Bird, patting the door fondly as he climbed out. 

“Do you like this car?” Aziraphale asked, head tilted, as he reached over into the backseat to retrieve their basket and blanket. 

Crowley came around to his side and took the basket with a kiss to the angel’s cheek. “She’s no Bentley, but she’ll do.” 

They walked into the carefully cultivated forest. 

Technically, they weren’t supposed to be here. It was private property. But it was also the closest orchard that didn’t risk interruption to Baltimore, and since Crowley was in the infernal city for _business_ , he figured he should be allowed to make use of the setting. 

Besides, it was beautiful. 

Aziraphale dragged him along by the hand, past the bundles of buttercups growing at the bases of the smaller trees, past the pine trees that wouldn’t be ready for another Christmas or two. He led Crowley past lush green patches of grass that sparkled with the morning dew, ground not yet dug up for a new crop of maple trees. 

Crowley tried not to get too wrapped up in the sound of birds overhead, or the distant sound of the creek past them. He smiled at Aziraphale as the angel stopped beneath a towering oak, leaning back to take in the whole thing. In the fall air, it waved to them with colorful leaves. 

“Here’s good, then?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale shook himself out of his stupor. 

“Yes, here’s perfect,” he answered, letting their blanket loose from his arms. 

The two settled in on it, and Crowley politely said nothing over the way Aziraphale traced over the moss-covered roots of the oak. He did smile fondly at it. 

He was doing a lot of smiling today. 

He pushed the sleeves of his jacket up and began unpacking their meal. Aziraphale would have helped, had he noticed, but he was still staring up at the oak. 

The angel gasped suddenly. Crowley’s head shot up, dislodging his glasses.

“Look!”

The angel was pointing at a pair of blue jays, dancing around each other as they built a nest in the crook of a branch. They twittered happily. The brightly feathered male jumped once, twice, then was off in search of more fuzz for the nest. 

“Isn’t a bit early for nests?” Crowley asked, somewhat confused. 

“They’ll need somewhere warm for the winter,” Aziraphale shrugged. “Oh, do jays migrate?” 

Crowley did not know. 

So, instead of answering, he unscrewed the cap on the thermos of tea he’d packed. He poured a cup for Aziraphale, who took it with one hand and brushed his other hand over Crowley’s in thanks. 

They ate quietly for a few moments, sipping occasionally at their black tea. 

(Crowley took his with milk, not that he would ever admit this.) 

“You know what this place reminds me of?” Aziraphale asked in a lull after a breeze. Crowley looked to him expectantly. “It almost reminds me of Eden.” 

Crowley sniffed. “It’s too close to Fall, I think,” he said. 

Aziraphale smiled, reached for Crowley’s hand, lifted it to his lips for a quiet kiss. 

After another few moments of silence, words almost too loud to be risked, Aziraphale tipped his head back to the cloudless sky. 

“It’s a very nice day.”

“Mmmm.” 

Aziraphale scooted himself up against the oak’s roots, crossed his ankles, and patted his thighs. 

Crowley would deny that he rushed to the angel’s lap, but he would admit that he laid his head there. He closed his eyes happily as Aziraphale began carding his hands through Crowley’s hair. 

It had begun to grow out, not quite long enough to be pulled back yet. This annoyed Crowley a bit— he’d rather be able to keep it out of his face, but he did suppose this current look gave him a certain appeal. 

A leaf floated down to meet the moss, and Crowley reached for it— browned at the tip, a perfect teardrop shape, jagged edges. 

“Is that an apple leaf?” Aziraphale asked, his fingers brushing over Crowley’s now. 

Crowley turned over, searching for any tree that might be an apple tree.

His eyes landed on a rather squat tree, trunk bark rippled with the effects of weather, no less than five stocky branches reaching out towards the sky. It’s leaves were lusciously green, dotted with red spheres that made Crowley’s eyes widen. 

_Apples._

“I do believe it is,” he murmured, pointed. Aziraphale caught sight of it and gasped happily.

“Oh, Crowley!” 

Crowley rose, ambling over to the tree. It seemed to lean down to him genially, smiling— _hello, old Serpent, it’s been ages since I saw you, come to tempt again?_

_No,_ thought Crowley, _I’ve come to fetch a jewel for my love._

The tree was perfectly heavy, fruits ripe and glistening in the now-midmorning sun. Crowley discovered he held the basket in his left hand; he had at some point miracled it to him. 

With his right hand, he began to search the fruits, fingertips brushing over the skins to ask permission. The tree seemed to surround him in it’s branches like arms wrapping him in a hug. He searched, he picked, he laid his hands on the tree’s branches in thanks. 

He returned to Aziraphale, jewels in hand, and lay before his love. The angel brought the demon’s face to his lap and cradled it, kissed his lips. 

Crowley reached into the basket and gifted Aziraphale an apple. The angel took the fruit, bit into the skin, and let out a nearly obscene noise. Crowley smiled. 

He took the apple when offered. He bit, and the taste washed over his tongue, and his eyes closed. 

“Delicious. Thank you, my dearheart,” Aziraphale murmured in praise. His fingers traced over Crowley’s jaw as he chewed. 

Crowley would not admit, if asked, how dearly he wanted to remain in this moment. Neither would he admit to the thought of making this a yearly trip, always in the Autumn, returning to the shade of this oak and welcoming arms of the apple tree. He lay on the mossy ground and damp grass long after Aziraphale gingerly removed him to pack their blanket into the basket, cushioning their ruby prizes. He let the sun wash over him, soaking up the warmth, and let this memory settle into place. 

When the sun was blocked out by the angel leaning over him, he opened his eyes. Aziraphale was smiling, the lines by his eyes and around his cheeks deepened with fondness. 

“This has been lovely, hasn’t it?”

“Mmm.” 

Aziraphale chuckled. Looking around, he wistfully murmured, “I would not mind returning here.” 

“That can be arranged,” Crowley filled in quickly. 

Aziraphale’s eyes returned to his. “I would very much like that.” 

“Then it shall be done,” Crowley said, reaching up to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. The angel leaned into his touch and wrapped his fingers around the demon’s wrist. Then he turned his head, placing a kiss in Crowley’s palm. 

Crowley would not admit to the swell of his heart if you asked him about it.

The apple tree would keep many secrets.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a private orchard like this not far from where I live. My area of the US is actually a great place to grow apple trees-- as a kid, I had two in my backyard, framing my play area: one that grew tall and skinny and constantly needed support, and one that grew stout and stocky and always attracted the deer. 
> 
> How _ineffable._
> 
> P.S. nobody knows when blue jays are gonna migrate or why their pattern is so random. Blue jays are whack.  
> P.P.S., if you liked Linden Lea, you might enjoy one of my favorite works, Wonder:[here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HuYeSx_owkc)


End file.
